


Never Go Home Again

by Lysistrata (FireFlyAway)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireFlyAway/pseuds/Lysistrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a post Battle of New York Bruce Banner is pursued by the international intelligence community, a mentally fragile Maria Hill is sent to retrieve him.  The journey of two damaged souls on their way home and the people they need to help get them there….or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Go Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic first came to me when reading the brilliant Nessismore's Maria, Maria.  
> This is set post Avengers and is consistent with timeline of Iron Man 3. Rating may change as the story develops and more of the MCU characters make their way in. No infringement of copyright is intended. No money is being made. This is just for fun.

  ‘I’m not sure what you want me to say.’

  ‘You can say anything. This is a safe space, Maria. Nothing you say here can be used against you.’ Her voice is soft and carefully modulated. Designed to soothe.

  ‘If you excuse me for saying, I find that difficult to believe. As a S.H.I.E.L.D psychologist you have an obligation to report back to the executive on any concerns you have regarding my state of mind.’ I mirror her intonation.

  ‘Should I have any concerns?’

I twist a little in my chair to face Dr Walton square-on. With an age soften face framed by curling grey hair and a practised ease, the good Doctor has a disarming air about her. It would be easy to open up to her. But I know better. ‘I’m fine.’ I say it every morning in the mirror until I believe it. All my conscious and unconscious tells are under control.

  ‘You’ve spent the last few months burying your people, Maria. You were seriously injured in the Battle of New York and you’ve been coordinating the agency move.’

The implied question, is of course the reason I am currently suffering through indefinite mandatory therapy. Everyone wants to know. Does Assistant Director Maria Hill have more than a passing acquaintance with sanity given she’s responsible for cleaning up the mess that killed twenty-four of her best agents and almost claimed her? I wait for her to ask the question.

We watch each other placidly as silence fills in the space between us.

It’s been a long time since I let silence disconcert me.

Dr Walton breaks first. 

  ‘This process only works if you are honest with me, Maria.’ It’s said without any inflection. A statement of fact. No judgement.

 ‘What makes you think I’m not being honest with you?’

Dr Walton blinks slowly and closes her note pad. ‘Perhaps we should consider the outcome of your last session?’

  ‘If you like.’ It seems safe.

  ‘We discussed your inability to sleep.’

  ‘Not inability. _Difficulty_. And given the time zones I’ve covered in the last four months I would think that sleeplessness would be understandable.'

Dr Walton gives a small smile. She’s humouring me.

  ‘I’m sleeping fine.’ I’m fine.

  ‘You have the last repatriation in a few days. You’re escorting the body back to Scotland,’ she looks down at her lap, like she can see though the leather binding to her notes below. ‘Tomorrow? Is that correct?’

  ‘Agent Kellie Rose McKenzie,’ I say clearly, ‘was seconded from MI6. Her body was recovered last week. She was the last agent unaccounted for from the attack.’

Dr Walton nods. ‘Maria, it is quite normal for people to reassess their lives after traumatic events, especially those that challenge their concepts of mortality, or perceptions of the universe.’

  ‘Management want to know if I’m still dedicated to the cause?’

  ‘Do you hope for something other than what you have, Maria? Your clearance assessment raises some concerns for me regarding your work life balance.’

I look up to the clock. Fifteen more minutes and I have to leave. Director Fury waits for no one. ‘Honestly, Dr Walton, I have no idea what I want. All I know is that I get a sense of satisfaction from my work.’

Dr Walton cants her head and gives me an appraising look. ‘That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in the last half an hour.’

  ‘I haven’t lied to you.’

  ‘No, but you resist participating fully in this process. I understand that there are some very painful aspects of your past…’

I interrupt her before she can finish. ‘I don’t see the point in talking about this. The past is the past. Talking about it won’t change anything.’

  ‘What you do is important but you have so much more to offer. You have value beyond what you do.’

They’re seductive words, but they’re drowned out by the sharp bark of my father’s voice and the phantom sting of his fist as it connects with my jaw.

  ‘Maria?’ Dr Walton’s voice is soft. Blinking I realise that I’ve been staring off into the distance for some time. Turning my eyes to Dr Walton I give her a reassuring smile. Her bland practitioner expression has been exchanged for one of gentle concern. She leans forward and her hand falls warm and soft against mine. It smells slightly of lavender. I let myself absorb the simple, alien comfort of human touch for a moment and then pull my hand free gently. Kindness can sometimes, unexpectedly, break me. It’s a weakness I can’t afford to show. In the world of intelligence every weakness is categorised, studied and exploited.

Dr Walton sighs and sits back. ‘This process is meant to help you Maria. The work you do is difficult and by necessity, lonely.’

I smile at her but it feels a little brittle around the edges. People always assume that because I’m alone that I’m lonely.

  ‘Before our next session, I want you to do two things for me, Maria.’

Collecting my StarkTech from the table I stand. ‘Of course, Dr Walton.'

  ‘You could have died in the battle of New York. Before our next session I would like you to consider any regrets you may carry with you.’

I consider her words, and give her small nod. ‘I can do that. What is the second thing?’

Dr Walton stands and we walk to the door. She lays a hand on my back. ‘The second thing I would like you to do is to be kind to yourself, Maria.’

 

It’s late evening when the plane touches down at JFK. The dour London weather seems to have followed me across the Atlantic. It’s perfect really. After four months of being the government’s family-representative at endless funerals the grey skies suit my mood.

Agent McKenzie had been buried next to her mother, in a field in Kirkcaldy. A quiet enclave of farms and historical buildings in northern Scotland. I sat with her father and brother as they told me stories of a young Kellie-Rose. The girl who had brought home field mice and slept out beneath the stars and the woman who had spent her adult years as a diplomat working in the Middle East, who had then turned those skills to the United Nations. At the MI6 offices I had spoken to her colleagues about sacrifice and the ever changing risk environment as her name was carved into a granite roll of honour deep in the halls of the fort-like building. It’s a speech I know by heart.

With the last burial behind me, the last family consoled, I was hopeful that the weight that settle deep in my belly sometime during the strike at the the Pegasus base, would lift. But it’s still there. It has a heavy, bitter flavour that tastes more and more like discontent. It makes me think of my session with Dr Walton and the homework she left me with.

I have a book of regrets. A laundry list of things I wish I could do or have. However, after the last few months one regret rings clear than any other. My funeral won’t be graced by mourners, lovers past or present, friends or family just colleagues. It’s likely my end will be punctuated by unmarked grave or interment in some government facility.

 _Chin up soldier_.

My father’s harsh voice echoes in my head. _Quit your whining, girlie_. After everything that’s happened I certainly don’t have the right to complain about my life. Hell, against all the odds I am alive. And I should be damned grateful for it.

Sighing I roll my head a little, working out the kinks from the long trans-Atlantic journey. The plane finally rolls to a stop and everyone dutifully stands, desperate to escape the enforced intimacy of long haul air-travel.

I stay seated and wait while young couple across from me stir.

The man jumps up the moment the seatbelt sign blinks off and lifts bags out of the overhead locker. His wife can’t be more than thirty, with long corn-silk hair and the careful gate of a woman entering her final trimester of pregnancy. The man flutters around her like a humming bird, clearing obstacles, a careful hand on her lower back guiding her through the cabin. Love and concern plainly written in every gesture. The display of dedication and affection is sweet and touching and banal in its everydayness, but so completely alien to me that I can’t help but feel the ice already in my heart drill a little deeper.

As the final of my business class cohorts clear out I stand and heft my carry-on off the plane and, after a quick check though customs, I’m ushered into a waiting SUV. Black tinted windows, bullet proof. The driver is in a suit and wearing dark glasses. I suppress a sigh.

  ‘Your apartment Sir?’ The driver queries.

I should go home; it’s just gone six thirty on Wednesday morning, S.H.I.E.L.D owes me a mandatory day off after the international travel, I’ve only managed a few hours sleep in the last two days, plus I smell like the artificial lemon scent of the hot towels from the plane.

However, I shake my head and watch the sun rise through the dark laminate. ‘Take me to HQ.’

There are showers at the office.

 

After hitting the gym, I slip into the showers and let the hot water work out the kinks of my run and weights session. While it’s essential that I remain in peak condition, recently my session have felt more like a reason to punish myself. As I make my way up to my office I grab a coffee, an apple and a pre-packed salad from the cafeteria.

My father used to say that anything worth doing was worth doing yourself. I suspect that is why I’m still in the offices at 9:45 pm, fuelled by nothing more than 20 coffees and artificial light. Of course he also used to say that the only way you could teach a dog or a woman anything was by beating them. I often wonder why his voice is the loudest in my head, and why I listen to it. I’m sure that Dr Walton would be able to tell me why and how it’s shaped me. I’m not sure I’d want to hear it. I sift through the reams of paper on my desk, the letter and spreadsheets blurring until they’re no more than a mash of incomprehensible information. I sigh and push away from the desk, hands massaging my temples. Perhaps it’s time to go home.

  ‘I seem to recall something about a mandatory rest day.’ Fury sweeps into my office and drops into the visitor chair directly across from me.

Nodding to the piles of paper on my desk, I give him a tight smile. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

He huffs out the closest thing you’ll ever get to a Nicholas Fury laugh.

  ‘The tracker picked up chatter two days ago. Seems like our boy’s secret identity’s been compromised.’ He announces apropos of nothing, tossing a file across the desk. Transcripts and photographs spill out. Skimming over them I sigh at the names. ‘ISI, CSIS, MSS, FSB…’ I pick up a photo and study it. Banner’s crouched next to a small child as he administers an injection. His face is side on to the camera, but I can make out a soft smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. The sun highlights the silver streaks in his tight mop of dark curls and showcases what I know to be a naturally tan complexion. He obviously has regular employment – he looks well fed, healthy, dressed in light khaki pants and a tight while polo with a familiar logo on the pocket.

I feel myself soften a little. It’s a good look for the scientist.

Tapping a nail on the edge of the photo I force myself to look up. ‘He’s working for Medicine Sans Frontier?’

The Spy Master gives a slight nod and settles back into the chair, arms and legs spread wide; the posture of a comfortable alpha male. ‘Consultant. Pay’s regular and he can keep mobile. Not enough to keep the vultures off his back though.’

I shrug and nudged the file, and the photo, back at Fury. ‘Banner can handle himself.’

Fury gives me a sharp smile and pushes the file back at me with exaggerated care. ‘Perhaps. But Banner’s MO is extreme. Given the givens, we can’t afford a Hulk sized event, and we can’t afford someone getting to him. Banner belongs to S.H.I.E.L.D.’

Logically, rationally, I know that Banner has that rare combination of skills that are sought by intelligence agencies – mental acuity, language skills, resilience, control, and attention to detail. Despite these attributes, however, it isn’t the scientist that the global intelligence community is after.

  ‘You want us to bring him in.’ It isn’t a question. There are two agents in the Middle East who can swing by and pick up the rogue Avenger. Hell, we could just call Stark. It’s more than probable that he’d fire up the corporate jet if it meant he’d have a chance to continue their epic bromance. I consider my options for a second. While the good doctor isn’t likely to welcome S.H.I.E.L.D with open arms, Stark’s spectacular reformation aside, the last thing we need is Tony’s anti-establishment influence concentrated over17 hours of flight-time.

  ‘I have an agent in Dubai who isn’t currently tasked. Give him two days.’

  ‘No. The Avengers are yours now.’

I’m not sure what to think of that. Banner in either state is neither containable nor trustworthy. And while his ability to work with the Avengers during the attack on New York was fortunate, I’m dubious about its long term implications. Natasha’s debrief and the footage from Stark Towers of the Hulk beating the God of Mischief to a pulp, are forefront in my mind. Some of my thoughts must leak though to my face because Fury’s expression hardens, his good eye narrowing appraisingly. Fury is a meddlesome bastard. ‘This is, of course, your pejorative, Sir. However, I believe my people are more than qualified.’

Fury stands. ‘Tickets are in the folder. You’re under cover so you’re flying economy Tanzania.’

I arrange my features into a suitably bland look. ‘Sir.’


End file.
